


bitter sweet home

by Anonymous



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Detective!Dream, Mystery, Other, Supernatural - Freeform, will be adding more characters once chapter released, will be adding more tags once chapter released
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27020980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Bad gives him a strange smile, something that Clay hadn't seen in the two years that he had worked with the station. "Take all the time you need," the man said, before retreating to his office, and leaving the two workers alone.The police officer checks his watch before he gives Clay a wave. "One thing for sure, is that it's a real easy case. So easy, that the guy who almost solved it mysteriously disappeared. Even the Sleepy boys avoid that case, Clay."Clay felt too exhausted to work on this, though. Maybe some coffee will wake him up?Detective Clay is on the case!
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 28
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Prologue

If it wasn't the screaming, then what made their hands tremble?

If it wasn't the betrayed look in their face, then what made their throat tighten? 

And if it wasn't the eerie stillness after the deed, then why did the corpse feel heavier?

They had to get out of here.

Away from the mistake they've made.

Away from the scene of the crime.

Away and into somewhere that wasn't this house.

No, no, they thought as they turned on the lights. This won't do.

Erase the memories.

Erase the attachment with the bed that used to have an owner, and the closet that used to belong to a living body. The multiple photos inside their small compact device that flashed the times when they've had fun, the times before they made a mistake. 

The times when they could speak to each other without tensions rising. The times when they trusted each other. The times when everything was alright.

They compacted all the cash they had, light hygienic objects, and clothes into a backpack. They still had a life to live, even if the other didn't, and they can restart. Restart again like a phoenix.

After washing the blood, guilt, and grime, they changed their outfit. He looks into the bathroom mirror.

They try to contort the empty face into a mundane smile. 

It didn't hurt. It felt _good_! Like chains finally releasing his body into the world that he was meant to experience, a lion freeing itself from its circus cage and ravaging unto the crowds that laughed at its misery from before.

He brushes his hair one last time before reaching the red canister that he carried from the garage. Splashing it around like a heavy rainfall, he throws it to the side.

They reach for the metal object in their pocket. Their thumb flicks the lighter, sparking it after the third try. 

As they stepped out the door and look at the home that they used to share, the lighter is thrown right into the midst of the space that used to listen to their quiet banter of the nights. 

The fire spreads even more, faster, than they anticipated. It was relieving.

It would've hurt more if the fire was even slower, after all.

Live again, start anew. 

Closing their eyes and exhaling the burning fumes of their home one last time, he turns around.

Then he never looks back.


	2. Chapter One: One day, you'll understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay is tired, and so am I

He never prayed so hard in his life.

His hand clutches the straps of the bag that was slung on one shoulder, and his strides quickly turning into a run. "Excuse me," he calls out to the woman that he accidentally bumped and nearly tramples over, too panicked to be embarrassed by the fail.

Not his first day on the job. Especially this job.

The cycle of events that led him up to sleeping later - two hours past his alarm - was ironic, actually. He stayed up gathering the details for the next day's meeting, and got a bit too overboard with the caffeine. Then like a heavy Friday party, he wakes up, drooling on his arm and staring at the clock that was two hours past his usual wake-up time.

The adrenaline immediately replaced the coffee that was usually the fuel of his day. That was why he was able to run for fifteen minutes and not stopping for any breaks at all to his office.

He sees the building right at the corner. Ignoring the burning muscles of his body, he runs through the crosswalk and into the infrastructure of his job.

Only to be met with disappointed looks of his co-worker.

"You look like shit," Nick scoffs as at his ruffled appearance. "I thought with your promotion, you would be more responsible."

His words were cut short as a manilla file was handed to him. "I did your research for you," the man tugs on his dirty brown hair, "and on top of that, I also did a lot more stuff. No right to complain about my lateness."

"Okay, Detective." The pronunciation on the title made him believe that it was sarcasm.

"Good morning to you too, Officer Sapnap."

"Shut up. I'll tell Bad to not give your ass a beating, aight?"

Sapnap strides to the reception and behind the counter, leaving the man to catch his breath in the sweaty coat he wore. He stood there until Sapnap came out with someone behind his tail.

"Clay! What did I tell you about obsessive researching?"

A motherly, yet professional tone that helped Bad become the mediator of this entire building enters the ears of the man.

"You muffin; And that much caffeine isn't good for your health either. I swear that you need a roommate to help your life into check," Bad scolds. However, in his hands was a cup of water that was outstretched for the detective to take a few seconds to gulp on. After finishing the refresher, the empty paper cup was handed back to the officer with a cheeky smile.

"Sorry, Officer Bad."

"I just want you to take care of yourself, Clay. It's not everyday we have someone like you to rise so quickly in our ranks, you know?" Bad has a reassuring smile to show that he understood the predicament. "Anyways, I've got something that you might like. You've wanted something like Detective Techno had since the day you got your title, so! With a little bit of researching through the files, I found something quite similar."

The mention of his 'rival' straightens his posture. Bad hands him a file with labels that could only mean one thing.

"... A cold case file," Detective Clay widens his eyes, "I thought the Sleepy group have gotten most of them by now."

Bad shakes his head. "That's physically impossible! Day by day, more cold cases are popping up. It's impossible for their group to solve every single--"

"--I think that was sarcasm, Officer Bad," Sapnap snorts.

Bad glares at both of them and shakes his head. "Anyway, I wanted you to look at this one. This case has been off the market for most of us due to its strange... experiences when others try to take on this case. It had become a ritual, ever since it came up, to introduce these cases to the new rookies. You're the newest detective, so....!"

"You want me to take this case. I don't know, but I'm getting the feeling of a supernatural vibe coming from your choice of words?" Clay hesitantly reaches to lift the case, however, Bad stops him from doing so.

"You might want to do that in your new office, Detective."

It was a serious tone. Clay stiffens and tucks the file to his side. "Alright. I'll start getting to it, then. When do you expect me to have some entail or information?"

Bad gives him a strange smile, something that Clay hadn't seen in the two years that he had worked with the station. "Take all the time you need," the man said, before retreating to his office, and leaving the two officers alone.

Sapnap lets out a small amused huff of breath. "Strange things happen 'round here all the time. Reminds me of my sweet ol' home in Texas."

"Have you seen anyone take this case before?"

Sapnap seems to think about it, before nodding. "Yeah, actually."

"What happened to them?"

The police officer checks his watch before he gives Clay a wave. "One thing for sure, is that it's a real easy case. So easy, that the guy who almost solved it mysteriously disappeared. Even the Sleepy boys avoid that case, Clay."

Was that also sarcastic?

"I have a shift and a murder to investigate. Now if you excuse me..."

Sapnap adjusts his hat before walking away to the left corridors, opposite of where Clay was supposed to be heading to.

The file in his hand felt strange in his hold. He tries to ignore it when he went to his office. He placed all the things he held, his backpack found itself in the free guest chair, and the file on the table on top of his wooden desk.

He sits on the chair.

The file illuminated a strange aura, like most cold cases did. Eerily, he felt that this one was different somehow.

When he tries to open it, a sudden wave of tiredness hits his head. The adrenaline must've worn off.

Usually, he'd brew his own cup at his house before heading to work. But due to morning's hectic events, Clay was unable to refuel his brain.

After getting only three hours of sleep, he decided that he should quickly find a coffee shop nearby. For some reason his office didn't have any coffee to hand out to the tired staff workers of the station, meaning that he must venture out on his own and find a coffee shop by himself.

He brought his wallet and locks his office behind him. Then he remembers, wasn't there a coffee shop that he past by when he was running?

After sneakily bypassing the eyes of security - not actually, since that's illegal, but it sounded cooler - he began heading to the shop that he vaguely remembered on his sprint.

He sees the sign, and along with the sign, was a strong smell of coffee.

_BitterSweet Home_

When he enters, someone was standing at the reception, seemingly in conversation with the man behind the counter. "Yes, Ponk. I'll be there," the British accent came out, slightly imbued with American, "only if you stop recording me."

Ponk let out a laugh. "Okay, George," the man responded, but then his eyes meet Clay's who stood awkwardly from behind and ready to order. "Oh, welcome to BitterSweet. What would you like to order?"

"Oh. Um, I'll take the Doppio Expresso," Clay said.

Ponk nods.

"I'll take my leave then," George says as he gives Ponk a small wave. "I'll see you tomorrow, probably, if I don't sleep in."

"Alright George," Ponk says over his shoulder as he was preparing the drink, "Have a good day!"

Clay steps to the side as he sees the man stop leaning from the counter and to walk out the door.

However, the moment he turned around and met eye to eye with him was one of the strangest experiences he has ever felt.

His green eyes, met with dark oak. No words were exchanged, no facial expressions shifting into something else.

Just one second of a stranger's eye contact, and that was it. George was gone before he knew it.

"Here you go, sir," Ponk snaps him out of his daze. "That'll be 4.99$."

Clay stumbles over reaching over his wallet and paying the amount in cash. "Have a good day!"

"You too."

He walks out of the shop and sipping the bittersweet coffee. He checks the time, then began walking to the building that was only a block away.

However, he meets those eyes again. Dark oak, staring from across the street. Clay had to admit that the man was attractive, though.

He checks the time again out of habit, but then looks up to see if the man was still staring.

George, eerily, was not there.

Even with the crowd, dimming as they went to their respective workplaces, there was no sight of the man anywhere.

Thinking not much of it, Clay decides to continue his walk back to the office.

After all, he had a case to solve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is happening?


	3. Chapter Two: One day, Yes. Today? Nope.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay is getting stumped. However, someone decides to hand out a vital piece of information - for free!
> 
> Then an incident occurs in which subconsciously turns some gears inside someone's head.

_What were you in here for?_

My hands trembled. 

"I... I-I didn't do anything."

The page flips.

I know I didn't. I would never want to hurt anyone.

My lawyer raised a brow, using his index finger to push the glasses higher on his nose. "He's assigned as unstable."

One look at me and they were almost convinced. After all, no one could've acted as paranoid, sickened, and traumatized as a character for so long. 

"How many years?"

"As long as he recovers. He wouldn't serve jail time, however."

A little more jots on the paper.

"Preferably less than three years," the professional adds. "To not waste the youth of this successful man, after all. Can you do so?"

"Of course. After all, we're known to treat our patients with the upmost respect as possible," the blurry person replies. I couldn't focus on the details... yet, I could remember their vivid white coats and dull personalities. It felt like hell.

"We'll get him situated immediately. Pleasure doing business, Mr. Jschlatt."

I didn't kill anyone. I know I didn't.

I'm scared. What is going to happen?

Will I be locked up here?

I didn't want to be.

Please someone.

_Get me out of here._

"Home found in the woods, only a few miles away from civilization, was found burning. Authorities did not disclose any more information on who was owner of the house. Supposedly, they found no body, or any evidence other than a melted gas container and a lighter. DNA was not found anywhere. There was evidence of life living here due to the tracks that lead to the area signaling a car was used. 

Police have speculated that this was foul play. Footprints were found on the track leading away from the house, but due to the rain that calmed down the fire, it was unclear on when it was made. Arson has been the final input for this mysterious event, but no leads on the criminal has been deduced."

It was ordinary at first glance. Another case with dead end clues that modern technology that would still struggle on deciphering.

Slipping into his pocket, he sprinkles something into his coffee, before gulping down the last warm drops. "Alright, alright. What can I do?"

Clay had been sitting here for a long while with nothing coming into mind with the confirmed evidence given to him. 

1\. It was unclear on the exact date the house was built, but the farthest speculated is 5 years ago, maybe early as 2.

2\. No one knows who built it. No engineer, no architect in town was in knowledge of this building. Either one of them was lying, or the person who built it was an architect or engineer themself. 

3\. The professionally built house, and solid structure on the walls and roofing was a clear indication of a good design. There were stumps nearby the building to also show that the supplies were gathered here and not bought from a store.

4\. Solar panels perfectly placed on the ground and wired to the house was evident. Electricity was also here. Not clear on when it was installed.

5\. There were two people living here. The closet displayed one size and the other was slightly larger. Other supplies indicated that two people had resided in this house.

6\. Medication was inside a bathroom mirror. Strangely, all the prescribed pills had disappeared.

7\. No usable DNA evidence located. Hygienic products were missing. No cash or form of currency was found.

"If there's no DNA evidence, but only one set of footprints was found, then what happened to the other person?" Clay mutters to himself, rubbing his chin. "Did the person carry his roommate on his back? Or... did the person kill his roommate?"

He furrows his brows. "What was the motive, then. They seemed contented and supplied. Electricity was generated, trips to the city nearby for other supplies was also there. Unless there was an accident like a forgotten oven... or maybe such as the police suspected, a crime. 

Murder? What point of it, though, to murder here? No one knew this existed."

He could see why it was strange. "Logically, this would've been the best place to commit murder. No one even knew it existed or when it was built. But this building seemed to be built with extreme detail, with the fact that it had been gathered from the woods and had incredible design. No point in burning it either."

Clay ruffles his hair and stands from his seat, pacing left to right. 

_"This was also hastily done. If it wasn't for the rain, then it would've spread to the forest and caused destruction. Maybe this was in the spur of the moment? Second degree murder?"_

Wait, he's actually getting somewhere.

Second degree murder. The act of having an intention to take another's life, however, did not specifically plan the details that would account to the event. Such as hating someone and pushing them off into the road, unknowing to the idea that there was a car speeding past. If they died, then that would be called second degree murder.

_"Whoever did this must've had intention, such as disagreeing with whoever lived with them. But with their extensive knowledge on engineering and architect, they must've had also some level of intelligence. They were reckless and didn't account the wildfire that would start from burning the house. Did they want to burn the forest too, though?_

_"Maybe this is a case of Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe the man kidnapped and forced someone to live contently inside this house, then victim successfully escaped and burned it down. Or maybe the opposite happened; Maybe the man got bored of this peaceful life, or had a disagreement that resulted in him killing his roommate and burns it down. Why, though?_

_Details show that they lived contentedly. This was a life that many would wish for. Why did this man throw it all away_?

_Sociopathy? Mental illness?"_

Clay slams his hand on his desk. "This doesn't make any sense."

Someone coughs at the entrance of his office, startling the man deep in thought. Clay quickly brushes his hair back into a more composed state and says, "Excuse me."

"Clay, Clay. Such an interesting individual you are, yes," the social butterfly comments with a chuckle. "You must've gotten that case. That case."

Clay eyes the manilla folder on the desk. "Chief Bad told you?"

The curly brown hair shakes along with the man's head. "Just had a suspicion. Many of our recruits despise that case and tend to switch it out within a few weeks. I've seen their spirits rise and fall with every dead lead with that case, and you seem to be reaching the limit pretty fast."

The Sleepy Boys consisted of mainly four people. Lead Detective Philza, a man reliable for resources and extra information. Prosecutor Technoblade - jokingly called detective because of his habits of finding out information himself instead of getting it handed over to him - is a man known for a streak of cracking cases left and right on his debut. Investigator Tommy, a man known to be one of the most annoying but surprisingly helpful on big cases, usually helps Techno and Philza. And Evidence Technician Wilbur Soot, who cooperated with them most of the time from the sidelines.

Wilbur was the man who stood there right now. A man of his caliber should be in the lab and watching blood bubble and splash, but for some reason, he was there, standing at Clay's door while watching the detective speak to himself like a maniac.

"What are you doing here?"

Wilbur reaches into his pocket and hands Clay a slip of paper. "I thought that this might be of interest to you."

When Clay receives the note, he recognizes the numbers as coordinates. "Do you give this out to every single person who gets this case?"

Wilbur shakes his head. "You're different. You rose in our ranks faster than anyone had, solving cases and apprehending criminals without much effort. You're the first person I've ever given the location to, even if you've popped up around here from two years ago."

Clay tucks it in his shirt pocket. "Thank you."

The technician turns away. "It's just part of the master plan. I'll see you around, detective."

Then just like that, day turns into evening. Clay had packed up his items and already began making his way home. Other than getting information on where the incident had happened and some possible suspects with his theories, there was nothing else on the strange case.

It was a feeling that Clay still never had gotten used to ever since he became part of the law enforcement. The empty feeling of never knowing what the answer might be, or the dread of hitting a dead end after spending so much time on the lead. 

It was a gamble for every case. Usually, the moment a case becomes cold, it would've been a wiser choice to simply move on to a recent case that had evidence only a few days old. After all, it would be stupid to work on a project that so many tried and failed up to decades old.

That's why the Sleepy Boys were respected - they've taken the most cold cases out the piling cabinets of the station. 

Clay wondered what pills they've taken to stay dedicated on a case that many have given up on. 

He hears something in the distance that catches his attention, like a distressed shout. Other people seemed not to pick up on it, but his origins of a police officer kicks in, and he immediately looks to the sound.

Someone was running to him with a backpack slung over his shoulder, while another was chasing from behind.

An attempted robbery only two blocks from the police station? Bold, Clay thought.

With his trained instincts, he discreetly moves his foot to the clear pathway of the robber.

Then he hears the sounds of someone falling to the floor, and right at that moment, Clay apprehends the man and pushes their hands to their back, placing his weight on their body. The backpack that was discarded to the side was instantly picked up from the person that was running from behind.

"Call the station," Clay says to them with his eyes locked on the suspect and his surroundings. 

Then a minute after, a police car had came over and handcuffs the robber, before driving away with a few thanks to Clay and a word with the victim.

However, Clay notices something.

It's George from the cafe.

The man held to the bag like it was going to be stolen again, his grip tightening with every second passing. He seemed traumatized, but then again, Clay understood.

"Hey," he eventually says after the police cars left and the crowd slowly reverts back to its normal state.

George stiffens, before interlocking his brown eyes with his. "Oh. Um, thank you, officer."

"I'm off duty, so you don't have to call me that. I'm Clay."

Clay extends his hand to the British man.

George glances at the hand, before releasing one of the grips on the bag and into Clay's. "I'm George," he says as they handshake formally.

"Where do you live, George? Would you like me to escort you?" 

The man shakes his head. "It's okay. I mean, it's not that far from here."

"Just in case you won't get mugged again," Clay said. "I don't mind if you say no."

George contemplates the offer before nodding. 

"Okay, officer."

Clay tilts his head. "Please call me Clay. That makes me sound old."

George stifles a snicker, before nodding.

"Alright, Clay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> printer paper is delicious


	4. Chapter Tree: Foliage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dreams are not nightmares
> 
> clay speaks to another person

Cold, lonely.

It wasn't lonely; I could hear the steps of many others outside my room, and the detached mumblings of the walls that my neighbors had shared. The blank faces had also came by to speak to me face to face, but it wasn't the same as speaking with a friend; I knew that the words only intended to be placed on records, and not heart.

It wasn't cold; a heater and a cooler had been attached to allow a perfect temperature for a human. Sometimes it was raised for perfect sleeping temperatures and lowered to motivate muscle movement. Never reached dangerous levels, however.

It's been a few months that I've been held. Three workers, or four? have given up on my self-destructive habits. "If you want to leave, then please cooperate," I recall the last words of one of them. "You have a business to run, sir, after the deaths of your parents."

It was always about the businesses, huh.

I could hear the next one about to arrive to my room. "Arson," an accented voice said, "was on their records that had been originally wiped clean. Reckless, intelligent, and apathetic traits, and sometimes vulgar language. Can be aggressive as well."

"Sounds... Sounds difficult," a new voice said.

"Yes. This would be perfect for your training. Feel free to exchange it's too much, alright? After all, you're the fourth."

Another mumble before clicking down the hallways, meaning that a person had left the door. Whoever was about to evaluate me must've been nervous since I've counted the seconds that they stood silently still at the entrance of my room.

_Knock Knock_

I sit up straight in my bed.

"Hello... I'll be your new caretaker," a man in another white lab coat comes in, and closes the door behind him. He checks the clipboard in his hands before taking another glance at me with widened eyes.

"I think I know who you are!" The man excitedly says.

I was a corporate, so it wasn't surprising. 

"I'm a fan of what you create. Um, sorry, this isn't professional." He clears his throat. "Welfare check, then the medicine. How do you feel?"

This man really had no experience or training. It was obvious in the way he spoke, stood, and literally breathed before my presence. 

"It must be weird to be meeting me in a place like this, then."

He laughs nervously. "That's off-topic, sir. I asked on your wellbeing."

"It's rude to not reply, Mr. Worker."

His eyes gleamed brightly, and he tries to maintain a blank demeanor, though his excitement was obvious. "Well, considering my circumstances, its something that I'd never expect - It's like meeting Jeff Bezos in a Bashas; you'd never expect to meet a person of your status in such a strange environment, I suppose."

He had more personality than all of the past workers combined. 

"Anyways, continuing on; Have you had any reoccurring nightmares? Or absurd things that you might see? How do you feel after taking the prescription?"

Oh right. This was a welfare check, and not a gathering.

"My parents. For the past months I've been here, a strange dream about my parents' have been appearing every week, three times at most."

He nods and began jotting down on the board. "How would you explain this dream?"

"It's back in my home and in the kitchen. They're both speaking quietly to each other... then their faces blurs, and blood colors the island table. Um, yeah. I wake up a little afterwards."

"How do you feel after this nightmare?"

"Empty, and contented from knowing that I'm still here and not... in that puddle of their blood."

He finishes his notes, before pulling out a small capsule from his coat pocket. "Here's the medicine, though it's been upped since the last person noted no improvements. I'll see you again tomorrow for any results."

He gives me a smile. "See you, sir," he gives me a nod, then began leaving the room. Another quick, short welfare checkup.

But he felt so warm, his face so clear. It made me... feel alive.

When the door clicks and I've realized that I was alone once more, I lay back down on my bed and tug on the strands of hair that covered my eyes.

I forgot to tell him that it was a dream and not a nightmare; dreams make you feel good, after all.

"So," I said to ease the atmosphere around us, "how are you feeling right now, George?"

The smaller man rubs his eyes, his shoulder tensing. "Just tired, I suppose."

"Yeah. It must be the adrenaline that worn off after chasing that guy."

George nods, but doesn't want to add to the conversation. As an introvert myself, I understood the dilemma speaking to a stranger, so I didn't push the topic and stayed silent.

We've walked a few blocks away from downtown and into the residential areas. George seemed much more relaxed than he did since he wore the straps of the backpack and walked in front of me, not worrying if I might steal something from his back. Probably because I was a police officer, but I like to think of it as a sign of trust.

George quietly says, "I saw you at the cafe, but I didn't know you worked as a police officer."

I tilt my head. "I guess I don't look like one, haha."

He exhales. "I mean, it makes it safer, I guess. All the murders and mugging that's been going on lately really unnerves me. Even my mother worries every time I head to work and come back late," he lets out a fond smile, "but you saved me from getting robbed so you should be trustworthy, I hope."

"It's my pleasure," I respond. "Where do you work?"

He seemed to think about it. "In a place on Earth... Why do you want to know?"

"I thought we were getting to know each other better. And it would be fair since you know what I do and all."

"... For an officer, you're childish," I could hear him mutter under his breath. 

I smile.

"I work at a daycare, you know, with children?" His tone seemed confused but in a humorous manner. "It's nothing too impressive, but yeah. I swear to god; their screaming and terrible behavior makes me want to... silence them... but that's illegal."

"D-Did you just confess a murderous intent in front of me? Especially a child--"

George bursts out in laughter. "Of course not! That's a joke," he rolls his eyes, "but yeah. Children, they are indeed, and I feel like it'd be the death of me one day."

He stops suddenly, and I was so indulged into the conversation that I didn't see the house that he stops at. "So this is my stop," George turns around and meets me with his brown eyes. "I'll see you around, Officer Clay."

It felt unreal to be around him. "Um, yeah. See you!"

He gives me one last smile before walking up the steps of the house. Not wanting to be a creep, I decided to head back to my own residency, that I soon realized was only a few neighborhoods away from his home. 

I hope to meet with him once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUMP in the ca Dill ac
> 
> girl let's put some M I L E S on it
> 
> (anything you want)
> 
> just to put a SMILE on Y O U
> 
> you DESERVE it baby
> 
> ~you deserve it all~ <3 <3
> 
> AND I'm gonna GIVE it to ((Y O U))


	5. Chapter Four: Billards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fundy is adorable, innit?
> 
> a strange case leads to strange environments

There has been something that was bugging Clay the moment he received the case.

"You know, strange things happen to those who take that case up," Fundy, a coworker of his, shared his break time in the lunch room as well. "Did you get assigned to that or did you choose it personally?"

Clay, whose mouth was full of a Subway sandwich, murmurs out, "Nah; Got assigned."

Detective Fundy was sly, cunning, and curious. His ginger hair and excellent ears and sight stirred up rumors that he secretly was a fox, or was just a furry in general, but other than that, his personality was tolerable for Clay. It could get fun at times when he wanted to joke around, or Fundy's personality can shift to serious mode when the situation calls it. Overall, Fundy was a someone that he could respect.

"I always wanted to know what's in there, but Sapnap stops me," Fundy pouts, "but Clay, surely you don't mind if you could show me a hint of whats there, right?"

It wasn't as if it was super confidential or anything, but Officer Bad might not approve of another party scouring through the contents of the file.

Swallowing the last bite, Clay said, "I'll ask Officer Bad, then."

"Sweet! Also, do you wanna watch Treasure Planet?"

"...No."

The mood shifting in the room was instantaneous. 

"No."

To cause such a reaction out of a simple request was startling for Clay. "Uh... Alright then. I guess I won't tell a single soul about this."

Bad had a stern look on his face. "Detective Clay, and please be honest for muffin's sake, please tell me that you didn't talk about the details to anyone here or anywhere."

"I didn't and I swear on the muffins on the plate."

The chief seemed frustrated. "Also, did anyone give you any information about the case? Like any extra details that WASN'T listed already in the file?"

Clay wonders if he should tell about the address that Wilbur slipped through. 

The man stands from his chair and takes a step towards Clay with a serious gaze. Then out of nowhere, he lifts his hand and lays it on the other man's shoulder, before saying, "Detective. Be honest."

It felt like an interrogation, he thought to himself. "No, seriously. I didn't say a word nor did I get anything in return, chief."

"Promise?"

"Yes, chief."

Bad lets out a relieved sigh. "Good. I was worried since no one is supposed to know the exact details, y'know? Heh, anyway! I'll get back to work and you can do whatever you muffins do on your break time."

The hand on his shoulder left a cold memory as if returns to the owner's side.

Then Clay remembers something. "Chief," he began, "uh, who exactly wrote the originals for this case? And if so, why don't you want anyone to be messing with it..."

Bad didn't have the usual comforting smile that would tell Clay that he was in a safe spot right now.

"I wrote it, Detective Clay. And as the original case-maker, I'd like for you not to speak any of it to anyone without my knowledge, nor have anyone else have knowledge of its contents. You're dismissed."

Clay waits for a second more as if expecting for Bad to 'sike' him and fire him right on the spot, before leaving the office and closing the door with a heavy sigh. Fundy was nowhere to be found - probably eating more stuff from the refrigerator without anyone's knowledge - and so he decided to head back into his office and continue working on the report he had to create for the case.

Maybe he needed another coffee break. 

He checks the time on his watch, and upon seeing that he had half an hour left, he leaves through the glass sliding doors.

"Oh, hello," George greets him at the counter. "You're back here again, officer."

"You're the guy that saved George's ass yesterday? Then you can get anything on the house!"

Ponk, or what Clay remembered to be, gives him a thankful grin. "You know, I always told him that this bag of his would get him into trouble. He just brings it every where he goes, kinda like a homeless dude."

"I told you that I have money and extra stuff in there," George snaps, "so shut it."

"Sounds like something a homeless dude would say - anyways, what can I get for you sir?"

Clay was relieved that this was on the house since he had forgotten his wallet in his office. "I'd like to try a macchiato, please."

With a joyful, 'I got you', Ponk leaves the scene and leaves both him and George at the counter. The British man lets out an awkward cough before turning to Clay with a curious look, a glint of wariness strangely in his posture. "You on break?"

The detective nods. "Yeah, but almost got told off by my boss and it really brought my mood down..."

"Ouch. What'd he say?"

"You know, don't talk about a case's information without his knowledge even to close peers," Clay huffs, "which is stupid because I personally don't believe that the case is cursed or anything. It's more of a superstitious rumor of some sort without evidence that backs it up."

George blinks. "Wanna tell me about the case then?"

"Wha- Dude, I just told you that I'll be handed the no-no slip on the first week of my promotion if I tell literally anyone."

"I'm not just anyone, though. I'm George."

"Yeah, so?"

"I'm different from all those officers - I'm a person that works in a care facility."

"Yeah like as if that's any better."

"Under the table; No one has to know."

"... You're speaking to a police officer, and I hope you're aware of that."

"In this cafe, I see the real you. Tell me about the case, Clay."

George was an odd one, Clay discerned, but it felt rather tempting to do the exact opposite after someone tells you. Like an act of rebellion against what holds him down from what he wants to do. 

Looking around, there wasn't much people in the cafe after all. Ponk, the barista, George, the strange man, and Clay were the only souls inside the small yet homey space, so unless George was known to be the biggest snitch alive, there would be no one to know of the leaked information.

Wait a second, Wilbur knew, didn't he?

... How?

Maybe later, he'll ask.

"Just some recent cold case, a few years old," Clay nonchalantly says under his breath. "A house fire in the middle of nowhere and not many suspects for the arson and possible murder. I mean, The Black Dahlia has been much more chilling than this... case."

George tilts his head. "You got any clue who did it?"

"None listed in the current state."

He shakes his head. "Must be tough for detectives like you, Clay. Allowing someone to do a heinous act and getting away scotch-free is infuriating, especially for me. I really want to help you on this..."

"But you're just an ordinary daycare worker, George. There possibly isn't anything that you can help me with on this, so don't stress it out, alright?"

Ponk arrives back at the counter with a warm drink in hand. "Here ya go, officer. Have a safe day."

It was ironic in a way with the barista's parting words. After all, when parting with someone, you'd usually say, "Have a nice day!", but for Clay's case, it nice was replaced with safe. It must've referred to his career, funnily.

"So when do you go to work?" Clay asks George. "Just in a few minutes... I'll have to leave soon just like you will, Clay."

"Cool."

Immersed in a short conversation, they leave the counter and exiting through the doors of the cafe. Ponk blinks away at the migraine that he derives in the short span of time, then quietly began to work on restocking the supplies with a strange, sullen mood that overtakes the homeliness instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur, what do you know about this case?
> 
> "I know enough, my friend, to know that helping you wouldn't change anything."
> 
> What?
> 
> "Sorry. I hung out with Techno yesterday. Stupid English majors"

**Author's Note:**

> all war is deception


End file.
